And then the invitation arrived—hand-delivered by courier because things like this should feel special. Claire had signed her name on the little screen before she looked down at the envelope.

Mr. Daniel Morris & Ms. Isabelle Hart
request the honor of your presence…

She read it three times, then once more, because surely there was a sentence somewhere that explained the misunderstanding. She placed it on the kitchen counter next to the basil plant and waited for the floor to announce it was only a stage prop.

It didn’t. The basil wilted beneath the afternoon sun. Claire straightened its leaves with shaking fingers. And then, because there are moments you either bow or stand, she stood.